Beloved
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Two-shot. Sherlock comes back from his exile, and he must face the consequences of what happened before he left. Keep the genres in mind while you read - this is NOT Sherlolly fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**Beloved**

It was hard for even Sherlock Holmes to believe that his mission had taken eleven months. However, when he looked over the circumstances in which he had left London, it was understandable how deeply he had thrown himself into that worked and thereby finished it in a third of the time he had originally estimated it would take. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were safe, and Moriarty's web was dismantled for good.

While he was glad that he could return to London, the people he cared for, and the life he'd led before The Fall, completing his mission sooner meant that he would have to face the consequences of what had happened all the sooner.

Sitting in the back of the elegant, black car Mycroft had him picked up in from Heathrow, the London streets that rushed by captured none of Sherlock's attention. He was in his Mind Palace, opening the door to a room he had not allowed himself to go near in the past eleven months, where memories he hadn't touched were unfolding behind his eyes…

_They spent the entire night before The Fall in the morgue, going over every aspect and detail of the plan, looking for any way it could go wrong and fixing it. She remained surprisingly calm and collected throughout the night, but he could tell that she was working hard to do that for his benefit. He'd thanked her by kissing her forehead before sending her home._

_ After The Fall, he had hidden in her flat for two weeks while his body recovered. Two of his ribs had been bruised, thankfully not broken, along with other numerous bruises and cuts and a nasty gash to the head. He'd taken her bed – at her insistence – and she had shared it with him – at his insistence (her couch did not look fit to be any kind of satisfactory bed). _

_ She was the best nurse and caregiver one could ask for: tender and gentle when tending to his wounds, firm and scolding when he made things difficult for her, and always patient and understanding. Sherlock actually behaved when he stayed with her, hardly saying anything at all but always watching her when she was home. When she was at work, he would be on her laptop, figuring out where and how his mission would begin. She fascinated him now, ever since she had seen right through him in the lab. Within two days, he had memorized her schedule, her habits, her quirks, what made her smile, what made her frown…and he never forgot any of it._

_ The nights were the worst. Then he would be plagued with nightmares of Moriarty, taunting him, torturing those he cared for, especially Molly. He would wake in a cold sweat, shivering, with tears he didn't know he could cry on his cheeks. Molly would soothe him, caress him, kiss him, hold him to her, and he welcomed it. Soon, he would fall asleep with her in his arms, knowing she would help keep the nightmares away._

_ Sherlock gave her his virginity the night before he was to leave for his mission. It happened so naturally and with no words; he would always be in awe of the pure way she could understand him when no one else could. She gave him all of herself, and he did the same for her. He memorized and catalogued every one of her reactions, her sounds, every inch of her skin beneath his fingers and mouth; the feeling of being sheathed inside her was the safest, most fulfilling feeling Sherlock had ever experienced._

_ After they had made love for the third and last time, she had told him of her love as she fell asleep, her head resting on his chest. Did she even know she was saying it? Sherlock didn't know or care. And because he knew any response he gave would fall on sleeping ears – and he could find no words to respond with – he remained silent. His only response was to tighten his hold around her and kiss her head before letting himself sleep for a few blissful hours._

_ Sherlock left the next morning before the sun came up. He got up, dressed, and packed in complete silence so as not to wake up Molly. She did not know he left today, and he could not face saying goodbye to his savior. He felt too many things he couldn't name to face a Molly who was awake; in other words, he was a bloody coward. So, he settled for leaning over the sleeping Molly Hooper, kissing her forehead, placing some loose strands of hair behind her ear, and whispering, "Thank you, Molly Hooper," before leaving her flat._

_ When he had gotten into Mycroft's car, his heart had been locked away with top security, not to be touched or examined until his mission was complete…_

…And now his mission _was _complete, and he could unlock his heart again, which he did by remembering her.

Coming out of the memory, Sherlock had no more answers for what he felt for her than he had when he had left. All he knew was that he had to see her.

Perhaps that was answer enough.

Leaving the car, entering her building, and making his way up to her flat, Sherlock had a bad feeling. Did this mean he shouldn't see her now? That he should reveal himself to the others first? No, he _had _to see her, no matter how much his logical mind rebelled against this.

He ignored the fact that it was his heart that was sending out the bad feeling, not his mind.

Arriving at her door, the absence of her cheerful welcome mat put all senses on alert. Putting his ear to her door, he heard nothing at all. The bad feeling now spreading to all four corners of his body, Sherlock didn't think twice about picking her lock and entering her flat.

What he found caused the bad feeling to escalate to panic.

The entire flat was completely empty and bare, as if no one had ever lived there.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat in a private room at the Diogenes Club, in a comfortable armchair by a roaring fireplace. It was the most isolated room in the building – he had made sure of that. But it was not for his own benefit that he had selected this room today. It was for the benefit of his little brother, whom he knew would come storming in at any moment, demanding to know where his pathologist was.

He was not at all looking forward to giving him the answers he wanted.

Inevitably, his mind reflected back to that terrible day two months ago…

_…Mycroft Holmes could not remember the last time he had run in his life. Being born to privilege, he never had any reason to run after anything. But now he found himself running through the hallways of St. Bart's, squinting against the fluorescent lights reflecting off the white walls and linoleum floors._

_ Finally, he arrived in the right waiting room, and found who he was looking for in a corner of the spacious room. Mrs. Hudson was seated in one of the awful chairs, her hands folded tightly and trying to control her tears. Lestrade paced in front of her restlessly, hands behind his back and head lowered._

_ "How long?" asked Mycroft without preamble._

_ Lestrade looked up at Mycroft, but did not stop in his pacing. "Been in there nearly an hour," he replied._

_ "Where is John?"_

_ "Won't leave her side."_

_ "Good…" Mycroft couldn't bring himself to sit in one of those awful chairs, so he leaned on his umbrella beside Mrs. Hudson. "I assume the culprit is apprehended."_

_ Lestrade nodded. "And I'll give an arm before he sees the light of day again."_

_ "The British government will personally ensure that never happens, Detective Inspector."_

_ Just then, an exhausted surgeon in scrubs entered the waiting room, and approached them once he spotted Lestrade._

_ Mycroft only had to look at his body posture and facial expression to know that the news was not good…_

…And he had been right.

Mycroft was torn from his morbid musings by the sound of muffled shouting coming through the doorway. There was no mistaking that deep voice, even at that distance and frequency. It came closer and closer until the door to Mycroft's private, isolated room burst open, revealing his little brother. The usual pallid face was flushed, and his eyes – Mummy's eyes – were flashing with more emotion than Mycroft had seen since their childhood.

The elder Holmes slowly stood up from his chair, preparing himself for the unpleasant task ahead of him. "Glad you were able to finish so quickly and in one peace, little brother."

"Where is she? _You tell me right now where she is!_"

Mycroft could not help but be in awe of this display. Sherlock did not even try to restrain his voice or his expressions. The anger and confusion on his face were becoming overshadowed by fear the longer he looked at his brother. Mycroft wished more than anything that he could spare his brother the pain of what he was about to hear, but knew that was impossible now.

The only thing to do was tell him the whole, true, tragic story. So he did.

* * *

An hour later, Mycroft found himself standing guard outside of the private room he had reserved. He'd locked his little brother inside, to make sure the inevitably explosive reaction was contained. And an explosion that reaction certainly was. Mycroft could hear crashing, smashing, cursing, screaming, and if his little brother'd had a gun, there would have been shots, too. But Mycroft had made sure there had been no gun on him before leaving him alone, for he couldn't be sure that the walls would be his only target.

The moment Sherlock had come back to London, Mycroft had called Dr. Watson to inform him of the fact, and the doctor would then inform Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade. The original plan had been to keep him, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade out of the loop about Sherlock's survival, but the tragedy that occurred two months ago had changed everything. Not long after it had happened, Mycroft had taken the three of them aside and informed them of what really happened. The circumstances aside, Mycroft knew that Sherlock was nearly finished,, and the immediate threats in London had been eliminated months ago, so he felt no qualms of conscience. Their reactions had more relief than anger, considering what had just happened, and none hesitated to swear to secrecy.

They had kept it, and now, they wouldn't have to anymore.

When Mycroft had called John, he had told the doctor to be prepared for anything from Sherlock, for they couldn't predict when he would come back to 221B Baker Street and what waited for him there. But that question was answered about an hour after Mycroft had put Sherlock in the room. There was a knock on the door, and Mycroft unlocked it, opening the door to reveal a shattered room and a shattered Sherlock.

The only thing missing were tears, but Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn't let those fall just anywhere.

After a silent minute that seemed to last an eternity, Sherlock finally spoke in a shattered voice: "I want to see her."

Mycroft nodded. "She's with John and Mrs. Hudson in Baker Street. I'll let them know you're coming."

Sherlock walked past his brother, as if he had the burden of the world on his shoulders. Mycroft could take it no more.

"Lockie," he called, using a name he had not used for his little brother since they had been children. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around. "I'm not going anywhere."

To those who did not know the Holmes boys, they would have thought such a statement was not nearly enough. But to them, it was more than. Sherlock did not turn around, but did give a small nod before walking away and out of sight.

Mycroft walked into the room that was damaged beyond repair, leaned against the frame of the now broken window, and shed the first tears he had shed in many years.

* * *

Numb. This was all Sherlock Holmes felt now. Numb.

He had no solid memory of exiting the Diogenes Club, or getting back into the black car that took him to 221B Baker Street. He did not feel the pain of his bloodied knuckles or his broken heart. He could barely see what was in front of him.

The car coming to a stop brought Sherlock slightly more into a reality he did not want to face. He silently got out of the car, and he felt as if he was walking through syrup as he approached the familiar building, entered, and walked up the stairs to 221B.

The door was wide open to receive him, and the sight of the familiar sitting room, wallpaper, and John seated in his armchair gave Sherlock some comfort that he desperately needed, making his new reality just a drop less painful.

John, who had heard Sherlock coming up the stairs, sat alert in his chair. When Sherlock stopped in the doorway, John took a long look at him that had no anger, only empathy. "Hey, Sherlock," he said after he stood up carefully. "I'm glad you're back and that it's over."

"Hello, John," said Sherlock. Then he said the same words he had just said to Mycroft: "I want to see her."

John took a deep breath and nodded. "In your room. She's just fallen asleep, though, so be quiet."

Sherlock nodded, and walked towards what had once been his bedroom slowly. He didn't feel it, but his hands were shaking. He barely heard John following behind him, and didn't even mind.

The door to his bedroom was open slightly, so he made no sound as he opened it fully. His bed was still there, as well as the posters of the periodic table and Japanese wrestling on the walls. But there was a significant addition to the room which was all he could focus on.

A crib.

Sherlock suddenly felt all of the air being sucked from his lungs, and that if he came any closer to the crib and saw its occupant, he would lose his mind. Or was it already happening?

So, he did the only thing he could do: he ran, out of the bedroom and out of 221B Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson could only watch as Sherlock practically flew out of 221B Baker Street and into the standard black Mycroft car that had not driven away after dropping him off before speeding away. He sighed and leaned his head against the glass windowpane after the car had disappeared round the corner. If he was supposed to be angry with Sherlock, he really couldn't bring himself to do that under the circumstances.

This was how Mrs. Hudson found him when she came up to 221B, having heard someone come up there slowly and then immediately leave it quickly – which, in her mind, meant only one person. "John? Was that him, dear?" she asked anxiously. She'd been informed Sherlock was back right after John had been.

John looked up at her and sighed again. "Yep," he said, collapsing into his favorite chair.

"What happened?"

In a sad tone, John told her what had happened, and Mrs. Hudson had to wipe away a tear. "Oh, that poor boy…we knew what he'd be coming back to…but that only makes it harder."

"Yep…I think he's the most surprised of all of us that he is a father."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "And just finding out he's lost her, and he wasn't even here…can you imagine anything harder for him?"

John shook his head. "I just hope that he did…at least a little bit, even if he never knew it until –"

"Oh, I don't doubt that," said Mrs. Hudson tragically. "Do you really think he would have trusted her like that if he didn't? Or given himself to her if he didn't?"

John thought about it for a moment before finally nodding slowly. "I hope you're right, Mrs. Hudson…I really hope you are…" He looked at Mrs. Hudson in all seriousness as he stood up. "You know what I promised her just before she…and if he can't do that –"

"Have faith in him, John," scolded Mrs. Hudson, approaching him and taking his hands. "I know my boy: he will come back. He may need some time before that happens, but he _will_. Give him some confidence when he needs it most. How would you feel if this is what you came home to after all that horrible man did to him?"

John pulled the old woman in for a hug of comfort. "You're right, I know you are…I'm glad I'm not alone in this, though you know that already."

"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Hudson, patting his back before pulling away. "Now, I'm going to make some of those biscuits you two are so fond of."

The kind woman bustled off to the kitchen, and John fell back into his armchair. Resting his head on his hands, Mrs. Hudson's words brought back a memory from that terrible day came flooding through his mind…

_He'd been at work when he'd gotten the call from Stamford that she'd just been brought in for a gunshot wound just above the heart. John had dropped everything and immediately traveled a few floors to get to her._

_ He learned the story from the paramedics. She'd walked to her local Tesco to satisfy her craving for ice cream when a man high on cocaine had come in and attempted to rob it at gunpoint. She'd been paying at the counter when he'd come in firing the gun, and she'd been in the worst possible position. The trauma induced her labor two weeks early. In the half hour it took for Lestrade and his troops to arrive, nothing worse happened. Even in his high state, shooting a very pregnant woman had been enough for him to drop the gun and cower under the register._

_ If she had not been pregnant, it's possible that surgery would have saved her. But the bullet had more than nicked a vital artery, and the damage couldn't be undone. When John arrived at her bedside, surgeons swarming around her, the dying woman made it very clear to him in her look and weak voice: save my baby even if it means I die. So an emergency C-section was held, and the mother was able to at least meet and hold her baby girl…_

…_An hour and a half later, there were six people in the small hospital room. The doctors had done everything they could for her, but all they could do now was make her as comfortable as possible, for she was going fast. Despite all of the life-saving efforts of John and later the paramedics, she had just lost too much blood thanks to a wound that had been, if not immediately fatal, fatal nonetheless. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade stood near the bed in silent vigil, and Mycroft stood by the window._

_ John sat beside Molly on the hospital bed, holding the baby girl that was only an hour old. The new mother no longer had the strength to hold her baby, so John held her instead, making sure to keep them in sight of each other. All the mother could do now was let her baby hold her pale finger with the strength she had passed to her daughter. _

_ All John could do was watch as the mother of his best friend's child fade before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. As Sherlock had once pointed out, he had seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths in his time, but that did not mean this was any more devastating._

_ With the last drop of strength she possessed, she said in a voice so weak only John could hear: "John…" She had finally torn her gaze from her daughter to look at him earnestly._

_ The doctor leaned in closer to hear her._

_ "Have faith in…don't give up on…" Her gaze drifted back to her daughter before saying her last word: "…Sherlock…" _

_ One last breath, and then she was gone, her finger slipping from the infant's grasp. The room filled with the horrible tone of the dead heart-rate monitor and the cries of the infant for her mother who would never wake up again. Mrs. Hudson sobbed against Lestrade, who hid his own tears on her shoulder. Mycroft turned to the window in mournful silence._

_ All John could do was try to soothe the crying baby with a lie as tears streamed down his own cheeks: "It's all right…it's all right…"_

…The vibrating of his phone in his trouser pocket brought John out of the terrible memory. He wiped his face of the tears that had fallen before pulling out the mobile. Seeing it was from Lestrade, he answered it with a curt greeting.

"Hey, John. Just wanted to let you know Sherlock's just left."

Confusion flooded John's mind. He looked at his watch, and realized that he'd been lost in terrible memories for nearly half an hour. "Left?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

"He came to the New Yard wanting to see the bastard alone. Since he knows how to hit without leaving a mark – and since I know the British Government will sanction it – I had no problem granting him that."

Feeling relief that Sherlock hadn't left town completely, John replied, "Well, he certainly has the right to…You say he just left? Do you know where he's going?"

"Back to Baker Street. He said he's already seen you…has he seen her yet?"

"No further than the crib. We'll just have to wait and see how that goes."

"Honestly, John, I wouldn't be surprised if he looks away or runs away. Except for that head of hair, she looks so like her mother."

"I know, mate, I know…But let's try and have faith in him. It's what she would have wanted us to do."

"Too right, John…I'll see you guys soon. Let me know how it goes."

"I will. Bye, Greg."

"Bye, John."

John hung up his phone and went to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was putting the finished biscuits on a large plate, since tea time was rapidly approaching. She turned to look at him when his footsteps stopped. "He's on his way, I think."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Good. The little one should be waking up soon."

John nodded. "You go sit down, I'll put the kettle on."

Mrs. Hudson had only been sitting down in the sitting room for five minutes before the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard on the steps. John paused in pouring the tea and shared an anxious look with Mrs. Hudson, who took a deep breath.

A moment later, Sherlock stepped into 221B like a dead man walking. His knuckles were even more bruised and bloodied than they had been when he left the Diogenes Club. When his eyes fell on Mrs. Hudson, she just breathed, "Oh, my boy…"

Without a word, Sherlock approached his mother figure, knelt at her feet, and laid her head on her lap before sobs he'd been holding in for two hours were torn from his throat. Mrs. Hudson stroked his head and back as she cried with him. John silently came into the sitting room, beholding a Sherlock he'd never imagined he'd ever see. Knowing that words would be useless and empty, John knelt by his friend and silently placed a strong hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder.

_We're here for you, mate. We're not going anywhere._

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sherlock entered his bedroom alone. After he'd released all of the sobs that were threatening to tear him apart, John had cleaned and bandaged his knuckles and he'd helped himself to a few of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. They had gently pointed him to his room, informing him that its occupant would wake up soon. He was glad that they were not following him.

This needed to be between him and her alone.

He walked across the room and stopped at the crib. Finally, he allowed his eyes to look down into the crib and look at his daughter for the first time. She wore a warm, lilac onesie, and a yellow baby blanket was loosely wrapped around her.

If anybody had any doubts that she was his, all they had to do was look at her head. It was covered in wispy dark hair that would curl when it grew out. Looking at her little hands, Sherlock could tell that, when she grew, the fingers would be long just like his. Looking at her little rosebud of a mouth that was partly open in sleep, Sherlock instinctively knew that they would be more similar to his than hers.

The rest of her, however, came straight from her mother: petite, fair skin, rosy cheeks, button nose…and Sherlock knew that, when the baby woke up – which would be any moment, now that she was stirring – he would see her mother's eyes on her cherubic face.

He was right.

The doe-brown eyes fluttered open, and immediately landed on him. Her gaze met his gaze, and Sherlock felt his entire universe shift: like and with her mother, she would be the center of it now.

Father and daughter looked intently at each other, hardly blinking at all. Sherlock tilted his head to get another angle, and his eyes widened as his two-month-old daughter imitated his action. He tilted his head the other way, and so did she. The baby squirmed and lifted her little arms, reaching for him.

Carefully, Sherlock reached down into the crib. One hand slipped under the head, the other splayed under her back and backside, and then he lifted her up carefully. Their gazes never broke. He brought the baby up to his face level; the little arms reached out and the little hands touched his face. She cooed as she patted his cheeks and nose.

Sherlock gave the closest thing to a smile he could give as he spoke in a soft, tender voice: "Hello, Amy Margaret Holmes. I'm your father, and you will not lose me as we lost your mother."

* * *

Later, after the sun had gone down, Sherlock and John sat in their sitting room. John sat in his armchair watching Sherlock, sitting across the couch, feeding his daughter with a bottle. _A sight I never dreamed I would see…_

"She won't let go of my finger," observed Sherlock, both to himself and John.

The doctor chuckled. "She likes you, then. Strong grip she's got, eh?"

"Exceptionally," murmured Sherlock. The bottle now empty, Sherlock set it down on the coffee table.

"You've got to burp her now," said John, tossing John the proper rag. "Toss that on your shoulder, lift her up, and pat her back firmly until she does."

Sherlock obeyed without objection, but spoke again. "Who named her, John?" Sherlock had been told her name by Mrs. Hudson before meeting the baby.

"It was my idea to give Amy her mum's name for her middle one, but the first name had been decided at least three months before…"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Do you know why?"

John shrugged. "She was so certain she was having a girl, always referred to her as a 'she.' When I asked of any thoughts on names, it was always 'Amy' and nothing else."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought, still dutifully patting his daughter's back and bouncing her a bit. Under other circumstances, the combination of the look and his actions would have made John laugh out loud. "No family or friends with that name…look it up, John. The origins. She wouldn't have stuck with that name without a very good reason."

John obediently grabbed his laptop from the floor, opened it, and looked up the name on the internet. The baby burped, and Sherlock settled her in the crook of his arm again, content to gaze at her while she played with his fingers curiously. But the sound of John giving a pained gasp caused Sherlock to look at him, and was struck by the pain and sorrow on his face. "What?" he demanded.

"This explains everything…" choked John before clearing his throat. "She told me more than once that she would make sure her daughter would be loved, by her and those closest to her, and that her daughter would never doubt she was…" John looked at Sherlock sadly; neither of them needed to explain why that was so sad to know. John then dropped the other shoe: "The name 'Amy' comes from the French word _aimée_…which means _beloved._"

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and he looked back down at his baby daughter, happily cooing in between sucking her father's fingers. Even in the dim lighting, John could have sworn he saw a tear fall from Sherlock's eye.

A few minutes later, when Amy's cooing had quieted, Sherlock observed: "She's falling asleep…Go into my room and get out my violin."

John smiled and got up. "Good idea. She played violin music for Amy in the womb all the time."

They went into Sherlock's room; the father gently placed his daughter back in the crib and tucked the yellow blanket securely around her, while John got out the long-untouched instrument. Amy fussed when she lost contact with her father, but once Sherlock began playing, she quieted immediately.

John leaned against the doorway as he listened to the lullaby Sherlock played. He had no doubt that this was a composition on the spot and from the heart, due to the beautiful but tragic melody. Damn near made him cry, but managed to hold it in. Enough tears had been shed between them today.

The melody ended, and Sherlock silently put his violin away. He turned to John, who beckoned him to follow out of the room. After silently shutting the door, Sherlock followed John to his desk, where the doctor pulled out a flat, rectangular, wrapped object. Sherlock took it and carefully unwrapped the simple paper from it.

When he saw what he was holding, his entire body froze and warmed at the same time, while his heart both twisted and filled. It was a framed photograph, black-and-white, good quality, of a very familiar woman with a seven-month-pregnant belly. Engraved on the frame below the photograph in beautiful cursive was her name:

_Molly_

"I took it when she wasn't looking," said John softly. "She was humming a lullaby."

Sherlock could practically hear that lovely sound as he looked at the photograph. She was leaning against the window of the Baker Street sitting room; sunlight was pouring in, giving her a glow. Her long hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and she wore a maternity dress he deduced was a dark purple. Her eyes were on her pregnant belly, which her hands were cradling, and a soft smile was on her face.

_My Molly…_

His throat closed up for a moment, but he had no more tears left to cry that day, so it passed. But when he looked back up at his best friend, he said in all seriousness and gratitude: "Thank you, John."

The doctor merely nodded, and watched Sherlock head back into his bedroom.

After shutting the door, Sherlock placed the photograph on his bedside-table, his finger caressing the photographed face after sitting on the edge of the bed.

_Molly Hooper…my Molly...my first and only kiss…my first and only lover…love of my life…_Ever since meeting her, nothing about her had left his Mind Palace; no memory, no detail had been erased. That would never change, he resolved then and there. She would not disappear or be forgotten, not now or ever. Most importantly, he would make sure their daughter knew her mother, for she would never know her.

After he didn't know how long, he got up from the bed and walked to the crib. Gazing down at his sleeping daughter, he felt that great wave of fear again at the thought of bringing up this child without Molly, who would have been the best mother any child could have. But he would not be alone; their friends, more like family, would be there to help him. He would be sensible and welcome it, for Amy's sake and Molly's memory.

He would be the best he could be for his girls.

What hurt the most was the reason why Molly had chosen their daughter's name. He would always regret that he had not told Molly how he felt, even if he didn't truly realize it until he lost her.

But had Molly given their daughter this name in despair…or in hope? Did his Molly understand his heart when he couldn't? Did she know that when he returned his heart would be opened to the both of them? Did her faith in him never waver, even after he had left?

It didn't take him long to realize the answer.

Carefully and quietly, Sherlock Holmes leaned down, kissed his baby daughter's brow, and whispered: "I love you, Amy Margaret Holmes…this you will never doubt and always believe."

**The End**


End file.
